


By Any Other Name

by blainedarling



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Assumptions, Drugging, Fights, Fluff, Forbidden Love, London, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Rivalry, Romeo and Juliet References, Smut, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blainedarling/pseuds/blainedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Two households, both alike in dignity,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>In fair London, where we lay our scene...</i>
</p><p>Zayn knows that Harry Styles is many things—but, of all of those, he knows best that he is untouchable to him, given the rivalry between their families' companies. But what Zayn doesn't know is that all those times he's noticed Harry, Harry's noticed him, too.</p><p>—or, the one where Zayn and Harry fall in love, even though they know they shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beautifulinquiries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifulinquiries/gifts).



It’s a testament to their many years of friendship that Zayn is utterly nonplussed to emerge from the bathroom to find Louis standing on his bed and reciting Shakespeare at the top of his voice.

_“See ‘ow she leans ‘er cheek ‘pon ‘er’ ‘and!  
_ _O, that I were a glove ‘pon that ‘and,  
_ _That I migh’ touch that cheek!”_

Zayn catches Niall’s eye, noting that his friend is clearly as amused as he is hearing such lines come from Louis’ rough Northern accent. “You should try and enunciate more clearly,” Zayn suggests.

Louis scowls, smacking Zayn’s damp head with his rolled up script. “Who’s the drama student here, Zed? Hmm? Leave it to the professionals.” He returns to his script, muttering the lines under his breath now.

Niall props an arm up behind his head. “Not sure I see you as a Romeo, you know. More…” He clicks his fingers. “Who’s the one who stabs Romeo’s mate?”

Zayn dries off his hair with a towel and drapes it around his bare neck. “Tybalt.” He turns to the mirror, scrubbing a hand over his damp hair.

“Looks good, mate,” Niall comments.

Zayn hums, twisting his head this way and that to take in the new colour. He’d shaved it short a few weeks back and, on a whim, bleached it this evening. It stands up bright and vibrant against his brown skin and the darker shade of his beard. “Not bad,” he accepts and turns to his wardrobe to pick out a shirt.

“He’s a Capulet. I want to be a Montague,” Louis pipes up, unconcerned about Zayn’s new hairdo—or having their attention focused elsewhere but him. The bedsprings creak as he flops down onto his back and abandons the script onto the floor with a smack.

Zayn plucks a plain black t-shirt from his closet and tugs it over his head.

“No, no, no.” Louis sits up and grabs for his backpack that’s inexplicably bulging at the seams.

Unless Louis went on a brownie baking spree again (not impossible) Zayn can’t imagine what he has stuffed in there. He hopes whatever it is, that it wasn’t once alive. “You can’t wear that.” He pulls out three suit carriers, embossed with the  _Valentino_ logo.

Niall looks down at his outfit of jeans and a blue button down. “I thought we were going to The Box.”

“Not tonight. I’ve scored us invites to the hottest party in town.” Louis pauses. “Well, I’ve scored  _one_ invite. But I’ll sneak you two in no bother.”

“Does this have anything to do with this Liam bloke you’ve been shagging?”

“Might do.” Louis grins before nodding. “He had a plus one.” He distributes the suits, each with their name attached to the hanger.

_Z—  
_ _Have fun, bello!  
_ _xo Pierpaolo_

Zayn unzips the carrier, revealing a long navy jacket with white trimmed burgundy lapels, draped over a white shirt and a pair of dark, slim leg, dress trousers. He skims his thumb and forefinger down the length of the lapels, silky smooth to the touch, curiosity piqued. “What’s the event?” He hasn’t heard of anything in particular happening this weekend.

Louis flourishes a black envelope from his pocket. He makes a show of opening out the four corners to reveal the information inside to the other two lads.

Zayn’s eyes skim the invite. “No,” he replies immediately, shaking his head. “No, c’mon, Louis. My dad will  _murder_  me if he finds out.”

“If they don’t find you and do it first,” Niall comments cheerfully, nodding to the name listed on the invite as the host.

“All the more reason to go—a little element of danger,” Louis protest, starting to strip off. The three boys are like brothers—embarrassment over things like changing in front of one another fell away years ago.

Zayn still remembers Louis proudly showing Zayn his first pube aged 13. And, at that point, they’d only known each other just shy of six months; Louis’ family relocating to London when his mum’s jewellery business kicked off in a big way.

Zayn groans and leans back against the wall. He barely notices where he’s still absentmindedly stroking the gorgeous lapels of the suit jacket.

Louis catches him in the act as he’s buttoning up his own crisp navy shirt. “At least do it for the suit, Zayn.” He smirks and looks at Niall. “Did I mention there’s an open bar?”

Niall sighs in defeat and stands up to change.

Zayn glares at him. “Traitor.”

Niall rolls his eyes, shrugging off the shirt he’s got on and exchanging it for the white Valentino one. “What’s the worst that could happen?” He continues before Zayn can try and offer up various worst-case scenarios for him to consider. “You’re always saying how stupid this thing between your families is. That the whole reason you refused to go into  _Malik Living_  was because of the rivalry.”

“If I recall correctly, your exact words were:  _I’m not having my soul sucked out through a straw by that petty bullshit_ ,” Louis adds.

“And that the last thing you wanted to do was end up the way your dad has.”

Zayn glances at a framed photo on his bookshelf—his parents, his sisters, and him on a yacht in the south of France. That had been before. Before his mum had died; before Yaser had changed his focus from creating affordable and sustainable living solutions in London to finding the best way to undermine and tear down their newly founded competitor. Their competitor who retaliated by doing the exact same thing in return.

“It’s a party, Zayn. It’s not like we’re trying to marry you off to one of them.” Louis shrugs on his jacket.

“Fine,” Zayn relents. “But if I get kicked out, don’t think I won’t drag your sorry arses out with me.” He hooks the hanger onto the railing of his wardrobe and proceeds to undress again.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Louis produces three nondescript black masks from his backpack. “It’s a masquerade.”

Zayn buttons the white shirt up to the hollow of his throat and slips the jacket over the top. It fits perfectly, hugging his shoulders and draping just so down his back, almost to his knees. The trousers make his legs appear longer, tapering neatly at his ankles. He adorns his fingers with a few of his favourite rings and slips the mask over his eyes. The dark tones of the outfit only make his platinum blond hair appear more striking.

“I barely recognise you,” Niall comments when Zayn turns.

Zayn chuckles. “It’s a masquerade. Isn’t that the point?” He takes one last look at the invite before Louis folds it up and tucks it into his pocket. He hopes he’s not making a mistake.

_You are cordially invited to join Mr. & Mrs. Styles in the celebrating the 21st birthday of their son_

**_Harry Edward Styles_ **

_Bishops Avenue, London_

_8pm ’til late_

_Dress Code: Black tie, masquerade_

ADMITS ONE

***

Zayn stamps his feet to keep warm as he and Niall hover in the shadows of the balconies of the Styles mansion. The garden is lit up with fairy lights and lanterns although no one is outside—February in England is no time for garden parties. The front of the house has been all done up, too—at least from what Zayn saw before he and Niall sped around to the back of the house to wait for Louis to let them in.

A moment later, the door swings open. Louis looks a little flushed and Zayn can already see the beginnings of a hickey blooming low by his collar.

“You couldn’t have done that  _after_  letting us in? It’s freezing out.” Zayn rubs his hands together and reaches for a glass of champagne from the kitchen counter as they slip past the serving staff and into the party.

Zayn’s eyes widen as they step into the body of the room. For all the parties he’s been to and the mansions he’s been in, he’s never seen anything quite like this. The lights are dim and blue tinted, a sapphire cloud sitting over the entire room. There are trapeze artists dangling from the ceiling, twisted up in blue silks, casting shadows over the guests.

There’s a low bass beat playing; it reverberates through the soles of Zayn’s shoes and into his chest. There are people dancing; everyone masked, some women even going so far as to be wearing extravagant ballgowns. At the far end of the room there sits a grand staircase, a large, golden embossed ‘S’ set into the wall behind it.

“Pretentious fucks,” Louis mutters under his breath before clapping Zayn and Niall on the shoulders. “I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother trying to protest. He watches Louis go, rocking up onto his tiptoes to observe him greet a tall, broad-shouldered man. Liam—he presumes—slides his arm around Louis’ waist and they slip into the crowd.

“He seems quite serious about this one,” Niall comments. He’s looking after where the couple disappeared, a fond smile on his lips.

Zayn agrees quietly, trying to ignore the tug in his gut at the sight of them. He’s good at pretending like it’s not something he wants—like it’s not something he’s searching for. But part of him, a very large part, longs for something more than just a drunken kiss here or desperate shag there.

Niall pulls him from his thoughts before he can make himself too miserable, as if sensing his internal monologue. “Come on.” Niall tugs at his arm. “If I’m your date for the evening then right now you’re being an antisocial bugger.”

Zayn scans for any familiar faces in the crowd, but the only ones he sees are those that he recognises from magazines and the society pages his sisters are so fond of, always the first to know the most salacious of gossip. He spies a tall young woman standing by the foot of the stairs, a glass between her fingers. Her dress is the same ethereal shade of blue as her hair.

“Gemma Styles,” Niall murmurs. He is transfixed.

Zayn can’t blame him. She looks almost regal where she stands, capturing the attention of most of the men in the room—and as many of the women, too.

“She’s beautiful,” Zayn comments, but not nearly so much so as her brother, the man of the hour, if Zayn’s memory serves. Chestnut curls that brush his shoulders, sparkling green eyes and dimples etched deep into his cheeks when he smiles. Legs for miles and a penchant for shirts nearly translucent and left open, necklaces smacking against the tattoos on his chest.

That had been in December, anyway, at the Shoreditch House annual Yule Ball. Not that Zayn hadn’t seen many a photo of Harry before that, his face scattered over the society pages he actively makes a point of trying to avoid himself.

The night of the Yule Ball, Harry had been wearing one such sheer shirt—despite the season—that Zayn had recognised almost immediately as Yves Saint Laurent, with a string of fairy lights draped around his neck that flashed when he moved. He’d been batting his eyelashes at a male Burberry model and if Zayn had been any drunker, he might have marched over there and demanded he flirt with him, instead.

As it was, Zayn returned home alone and commiserated to his pillow of the injustice of the most beautiful man in London being completely unapproachable to him. Even if Zayn couldn’t care less for the animosity between their families, the Styles family certainly did. Zayn had no doubt that Harry, already in a high-level position and prime to take over the company one day, would hold that belief fast and true.

“Zayn, d’ya mind if I just—” Niall fixes his hair. That’s his tell—there’s a girl.

Zayn follows Niall’s gaze; it’s still fixed on Gemma. He wonders if he should intervene before Niall sets himself up to get his heart broken. “Go, go.” He waves him off. “I can fend for myself, I guess.” He feels nervous once he’s alone; exposed in the crowd. He adjusts his mask and tugs his sleeves low over his wrists so no one will spy any of the tattoos there. He is no one here, least of all Zayn Malik.

He makes his way to the buffet table set up for something to occupy himself with. It’s not all that unusual for Zayn to be nervous in a social situation like this, but his self-confidence has certainly increased over the years. He’s a far cry from the boy he was at sixteen, plucked and stuffed into a suit and made to stand by his sisters. Forced to smile and make small talk with strangers when all he really wanted to do was run from the room and hide in the secret cupboard at the bottom of the stairs.

“Try this.”

Zayn glances to the owner of the extended hand warily, a morsel of some sweet between his fingers.

“It’s my favourite,” the stranger insists. His voice is slow and deep, emerald orbs looking at Zayn from behind his mask. His hair pulled back from his face into a tight bun.

Zayn takes the proffered food and pops it into his mouth. It’s chewy and sweet, but not obviously so. “It’s good,” he tells the other man who’s watching him carefully for a reaction. “I like it.”

The stranger smiles crookedly. “Good.” He takes a step away from Zayn to help himself to a bite of something else.

Zayn takes the opportunity to look over the other man’s attire. He’s wearing dark fitted trousers and a matching suit jacket, satin lapels glinting in the low light of the room. Zayn notes the small cross tattooed on his hand as he places a sweet into his mouth. Something about him feel familiar, but Zayn can’t place him.

“What’s it called?” Zayn asks. He doesn’t want the stranger to leave, not yet. But he doesn’t want to ask his name and risk fumbling when questioned in return.

The man’s eyes look dark behind the black velvet of his mask. He licks the sugar from his fingertips. “What’s what called?”

Zayn takes another of the sweet he had been given and presses it between his lips, making a show of popping it into his mouth. He notes, with some satisfaction, that the stranger’s eyes drift down to his mouth to watch him do it.

“Turkish Delight.” He smiles. “Haven’t you ever had Turkish Delight before?”

Zayn shakes his head.

The stranger watches him with a smirk. “Dance with me?” He asks, a moment later.

Zayn huffs out a laugh. “I don’t dance.”

The stranger doesn’t seem too disappointed by this response. Rather, he steps forward. “Will you follow me, then?” He asks in a whisper. His hand is warm as he slips it through Zayn’s, not waiting for an answer before beginning to pull him insistently through the crowds.

Zayn doesn’t know where they’re going and every time he tries to ask, he gets a stern look or else no response at all. He looks down at their joined hands, rubbing his thumb lightly over the tattoo he’d noticed earlier.

The man leads him into a dark corridor, the sounds of the party muffled as the door shuts behind them.

“I don’t know if Des Styles would appreciate you creeping around his house like a cat burglar,” Zayn comments.

The stranger chuckles dryly in the darkness.

Zayn can only just make out his silhouette, relying more on his other senses as he feels his back hit the wall behind him. His breath fans out over Zayn’s mouth and Zayn whimpers involuntarily, sliding his hand down the smooth expanse of the stranger’s back.

“Not here,” the stranger murmurs, pulling back sharply and starting up a flight of stairs that Zayn hadn’t even realised were there.

Zayn trips over his own feet trying to keep up in the unfamiliar surroundings, following the sounds of the other’s expensive leather shoes on the stairs. He blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust to a burst of light ahead, following the stranger into a corridor.

He leads him down the carpeted hallway and opens a door. The stranger turns to Zayn and where before he had seemed sure of himself, now he seems hesitant.

Zayn shuts the door behind him and looks around the bedroom he has been brought to. He notices the photos first—the walls adorned with them. The blue-haired beauty of Gemma Styles, although in these photos her hair goes through a whole spectrum of colours. A sweet looking older woman with dark hair and a greying man with a round face. A beautiful boy amongst them that he recognises immediately. He turns to the stranger just as he slips the mask from his eyes and tosses it onto the nightstand.

“Harry Styles,” Zayn breathes out. He manages to hold back on saying that he is even more beautiful up close—but what comes out is almost as bad. “Your hair looks different.”

Harry grins, pulling the hair tie free from his hair, his curls cascading loose over his shoulders. “Is that better?” He crosses over to him, reaching up to scratch his fingers over Zayn’s short hair. “Yours is different, too. But I like it,” he adds. “Zayn.”

Zayn feels foolish with his mask still on, when it’s obvious Harry knows exactly who he is. He unties it and sets it down next to Harry’s.

“I can’t imagine you were on the guest list,” Harry comments, the corner of his mouth still tilted upwards into a smile. He takes Zayn’s hand and traces the lines of the mandala tattooed on the back of his hand with one finger.

He’s flirting with him. Zayn slips seamlessly out of the persona he had been adopting below and back into himself. “Should I have been?”

“If I’d had any say in the matter.”

Zayn hums. “Interesting.”

“How so? Because of what my last name is and what your last name is?” Harry rolls his eyes. “I never cared about any of that. Even less so when I first saw you in person, last summer. Do you remember? Jessica Landon’s pool party.”

Zayn remembers the party. And he remembers Harry there. He remembers watching Harry stripping down to his boxer briefs and vaulting himself into her heated pool with some of the other guests. He remembers staying by the makeshift bar for the duration of the night, drinking too many margaritas. He remembers dry heaving into the toilet the next morning.

“I remember. I was just…” Zayn gestures vaguely. “On the sidelines. I don’t swim.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow. “Seems like there’s a lot of things you don’t do. Why go to a pool party if you don’t swim?”

Zayn shrugs. “I went to make an appearance. I stayed because I saw you.”

“You saw me?” Harry steps closer to him, so there’s not an inch of space between them, their noses brushing together.

“All of you,” Zayn whispers, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

Harry laughs lightly, the sound sending goosebumps over Zayn’s skin.

Zayn’s hands push Harry’s suit jacket back off his shoulders and onto the floor. He pops the first few buttons of his shirt and traces a finger over the head of one of the swallows on his chest. He presses a kiss in the space between their heads.

“I knew who you were. I didn’t care. All I cared about was that I wanted you. So badly. So I kept going to parties where I knew you’d be but you never once noticed me.” Harry presses his mouth to the crook of Zayn’s neck. “Maybe I should have given up long ago but I thought, if I could just get you to _notice_  me.”

“I did notice you,” Zayn says in a rush, his large hands cupping Harry’s face as he brings his lips to his own. He kisses him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to do, like he might die if he doesn’t. He licks the taste of sugar from Harry’s lips and curls his tongue into his mouth. “I noticed you every time but you… You were  _untouchable_.”

Harry’s hands are fisting into Zayn’s shirt, dragging him towards the bed. “You’re touching me now, aren’t you?” His breathing is a hint more ragged than it had been before. “Am I untouchable, Zayn?” He melts back into the sheets, hands pulling Zayn down with him.

Zayn straddles Harry’s thighs with a groan, ghosting his hands over the breadth of his chest, over the curve of his hips and around to his full ass. “No,  _fuck_. And you feel amazing.”

“Kiss me,” Harry begs and Zayn does. He kisses him and kisses him as Harry’s hands fumble with Zayn’s shirt, his own jacket. Their hips rock together lazily, both of them filling up in their suit trousers.

“Happy birthday,” Zayn purrs into his neck as he kisses down the middle of his chest where he’s unbuttoned his shirt. “I can’t say I thought to bring a gift,” he admits with a grin. “But maybe this might do.” He noses over the sparse trail of hair that creeps down from Harry’s belly button before pulling his cock free. He’s long and thick, flushed with arousal, precome beading at the tip.

Zayn sucks the head into his mouth without hesitation, licking the drop away with a flick of his tongue. Harry’s hand strokes over the back of Zayn’s neck, not pushing him down any further, murmuring incoherently as Zayn’s hand scratch over the insides of his thighs.

The door slams open and Harry jerks so hard that the tip of his cock nudges the back of Zayn’s throat. Zayn pulls back and coughs, spit pooling at the corner of his mouth.

“Harry, your father’s looking for you.”

“Liam,” Harry hisses, stuffing his cock back into his boxers and pushing himself up onto his elbows.

“Liam?” Zayn wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and looks to the source of their interruption. “You’re Louis’ Liam?”

“You know Louis?” Harry asks in surprise.

“Harry, your dad,” Liam repeats insistently. “He’ll try here next and I don’t think this is what you want him to find you doing.” He glances at Zayn. “Especially not if that’s who I think it is.”

“I’m Zayn,” Zayn offers up helpfully.

Liam ignores him, glancing back over his shoulder and cursing under his breath.

Zayn hears footsteps and scrambles off the bed, toppling to the floor.

Harry shoves him towards the door of the balcony. “Quick, go,” he begs, pushing him through the doors and out into the cold night.

Zayn quickly buttons up his shirt and stuffs it back into the waistband of his trousers; his jacket and shoes still in the bedroom. He can hear voice inside the room and he presses his ear to the glass, his figure hidden by the thin curtains inside the bedroom.

“Those guests are here for you, Harry. You have to make an effort.”

“I know, father. I just needed a minute to myself. That’s all.”

“Liam, I’m trusting you to make sure he’s downstairs—and  _presentable_ , Harry, why is your shirt all rumpled?—in the next five minutes.”

“Yes, Mr. Styles. Of course.”

Zayn hears a door close inside and tentatively cracks open the one to the balcony. He peeks through the gap, watching as Harry adjusts his clothing and grabs his mask from the nightstand. He spares a lingering glance to Zayn’s that sits there still.

“Was that who I think it was?” Liam asks, tipping his head towards the balcony.

Zayn pulls his face back a little from the cracked open door. Whether or not they realise he can hear them, he is interested to see what they—or, rather, what  _Harry_ might admit to his best friend about him.

“Yeah. It was.” Harry tugs at his lower lip. “Don’t give me that look. You know… You  _know_  how long I’ve been harbouring that stupid crush on him. I thought maybe if I just got it out of my system—”

Zayn winces and nearly makes to shut the door and start climbing down the balcony. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear this, after all.

“Just be careful, Haz. Your dad wouldn’t just disapprove, he’d… I don’t even want to think what he might do.”

Harry huffs out a laugh. “I know. You don’t need to tell me. Besides, what about you? Louis’ a friend of Zayn’s?”

“Seems that way. He’d mentioned a Zayn, but I didn’t realise it was  _that_  Zayn.”

Zayn watches as Harry checks his reflection in the mirror running along the far side of the wall. For a second, he’s sure that their eyes meet, Harry spying him peering through the crack of the door.

Harry turns away, looking back to Liam as they head towards the door. “Double date sometime?” He grins.

Liam snorts. “That would require me convincing Louis to actually let me take him out on a proper date first.”

Harry slings an arm around his shoulders as they step out into the corridor, his words drowned out as they walk away, back towards the party.

Zayn lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and rests his head against the cool glass of the door a minute before slipping inside. He finds his jacket easily and slips it on, stealing a splash of Harry’s cologne that he takes from the dresser. He eventually finds his shoes, one toe poking out from under the bed where Harry had obviously kicked them at his father’s entrance. Zayn spies a stack of worn journals and a nondescript black box under the bed but he decides it’s probably a bad time for snooping, even if curiosity bubbles under his skin.

He finds Niall easily when he returns downstairs, the blond’s slim body moulded into a plush blue love seat. There’s a stack of empty glasses on the table in front of him; a half empty one in his hand. Niall is absentmindedly drawing shapes in the condensation that’s gathered on the side.

“You alright?” Zayn sinks down beside him, giving his knee a squeeze. “How did it go?”

Niall takes a large gulp of his drink. “Didn’t even get close, mate. Her dad is one scary bloke.”

“I know,” Zayn mutters under his breath. “Louis?”

“Getting a drink. His boy ditched him to—” Niall mimes air quotes with his free hand “—take care of something. Louis’ got himself convinced that he’s harbouring a girlfriend around here.”

Right on cue, Louis appears, depositing a trio of shot glasses onto the small table.

“Maybe he just had to use the bathroom or go for a smoke,” Zayn offers up; not wanting to let on exactly where Liam had been and how he knew this.

Louis downs one of the shots. “Last I saw, he was acting shifty. Nothing good ever comes from someone acting shifty.” He knocks back a second shot, gulping visibly before reaching for the third. “Speaking of shifty—where have you been?”

Zayn fiddles with the cuff of his shirt. “I made a friend.”

Louis eyes him carefully. “A friend or a  _friend?”_

“A…” Zayn thinks back on what he’d overheard Harry say to Liam. About fancying him. About getting it out of his system. “I don’t know yet.”

Louis finishes the shot and wipes his hands off on his thighs. “Right then. More drinks, it is.”

Zayn allows Louis to feed him drink after drink and refuses to let himself question whether the fleeting moments he shared with Harry upstairs are all that he will get.

*

The party starts to quiet after three, the grand room seeming to grow larger and larger as it empties out. Louis has long since left with Liam, the girlfriend theory either forgotten or debunked for good. Niall is curled up on another of the love seats, babbling hopefully about late night kebab as he picks his way through a plate of leftovers he had scavenged from the last of the buffet.

Zayn is one of the few still left on his feet, stamina encouraged by the drinks and the hope that he might still see Harry.

“Zayn, please. Can we go?” Niall’s suit jacket is tossed over the back of the love seat, his shirt open at the collar. He’s got a smidgen of sauce at the corner of his mouth and his mask is askew. He looks exhausted.

Zayn pauses, swaying on his feet. “You go. I’m going to stay a little while longer.”

Niall sighs, setting down the plate and standing up, slinging his jacket over one shoulder. “You’ll be alright?” He pulls him into a tight hug. “Don’t get into any trouble, you noodle.”

Zayn pecks his cheek affectionately. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

It’s a promise he keeps for all of three seconds. The moment Niall is out of sight, Zayn is perusing the room with an intent focus on finding Harry. But there is no sign of him. His drunken feet, however, lead him to Gemma.

“Excuse me.” Zayn smiles his sweetest smile. “Have you seen Harry?”

“I think he went to his room already.” She smiles back, twirling a strand of long hair around her finger. “But I’m still here.”

Zayn kisses her cheek. “And you look beautiful,” he tells her before turning on his heel and scampering off. “Just not as beautiful as the one I’m looking for,” he murmurs under his breath.

He heads towards the door Harry had taken him through earlier but veers to an abrupt stop when he sees Mr. Styles and his wife standing just to the side of it, saying goodbye to a few of the stragglers. He clicks his tongue off the backs of his teeth in thought before taking off towards the kitchens, retracing the steps that had led him into the party in the first place.

It’s quiet and cold outside, the door clicking shut behind him. He tugs his jacket tighter around his body even though the alcohol is doing a good job of keeping him warm. Light spills from the upper levels of the house and Zayn tiptoes out from under the shadow of the balcony.

He tips his head up and sees light spilling out from the balcony overhead. He sees no sign of Harry, though. He tucks himself closer to the wall again and fumbles for a cigarette to keep himself warm as he waits. He doesn’t have to wait long, as it turns out, hearing footsteps on stone above his head.

“What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and he is the sun!” Zayn declares as he skips out from under the balcony. “Oh, Harry, let down your hair so that I may climb up to be with you!”

Harry leans down over the balcony, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. “You’re mixing up stories there, Zayn.” He props his chin up in one hand, a wide grin dimpling his cheek. “But there’s some ivy over there.” He points to the side of the balcony.

Zayn considers it. The ivy looks twisted and firm, enough for him to get a foothold into. But he’s been drinking and, frankly, he’s uncoordinated at the best of times. The ground would be hard and unforgiving if he slipped.

But then, there’s Harry. Harry who is leaning over the balcony, suit jacket abandoned and shirt gaping over his collarbone to reveal the warm skin he’d kissed earlier. Harry who’s looking down at him with dark eyes and Harry who’s asking him— _telling_  him—to come to him.

Zayn launches himself at the ivy, grunting as he hauls himself up. He digs his nails in tight to every fistful of the plant he gets, his long legs pulling him up to the balcony efficiently. He swings one leg over the side and vaults his weight towards it, toppling onto the stone. “Oof,” he mumbles, adjusting the mask that had fallen into his eyes in the process.

Harry crouches down beside him. “Maybe you should have taken that off first,” he says gently, peeling it back from his face and tossing it over the side of the balcony. He offers him a hand and helps him up, pulling him out of the cold into the warmth of his bedroom.

Zayn barely has a moment to breathe before Harry’s mouth is on his, hot and insistent as his hands tug at Zayn’s shirt. He pushes Harry back towards the bed, flicking his thumb over one of his his nipples through his shirt as he bites into the swell of his lower lip.

“I think,” Harry pants out, his voice rough.

Zayn can feel Harry’s nails digging into his chest through the material of his shirt.

“I think you should finish what you started earlier,” Harry finishes.

Zayn hums. He can smell the alcohol on Harry’s breath, mixed in with traces of mint. Harry’s as drunk and desperate and horny as Zayn is. And Zayn fucking  _loves_  it. He presses a hand to the centre of Harry’s chest so he ends up sitting on the edge of the bed before dropping to his knees, nuzzling straight in between his thighs. “We’re not going to get interrupted again, are we?” He looks up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Shit,” Harry mumbles, his thighs spreading as he curls his hands around the side of the mattress. “No, no, just— Just don’t be too loud.”

Zayn smirks. “Don’t think I’m the one you have to worry about being too loud, babe.” He pops the button on Harry’s dress trousers and drags the material down his thighs. The length of Harry’s cock is clear through the material of his boxer briefs and he can’t help but slot his mouth over it, sucking through the cotton.

Harry groans, his head tipping back as he shameless rocks his hips towards Zayn’s mouth.

“Thought so,” Zayn teases before pulling Harry’s cock out.

*

Harry helps get Zayn off after he’s come down his throat and they fall asleep a pile of sated limbs, entwined in Harry’s bed. What wakes Zayn the next morning isn’t the sounds of the housekeeping staff downstairs cleaning or the sliver of sunlight that’s filtered into the room, but the feel of Harry’s hard cock dragging against his thigh.

Zayn squints, scratching a hand through his short hair. “Morning.” He winces at how thick and rough his voice sounds.

“Good morning,” Harry whispers. He flattens his body over Zayn’s, their chests pressing together as Harry’s hands bunch in the pillows at either side of Zayn’s head. His thighs are locked around Zayn’s, his hips still grinding small circles into the warm, naked skin there. “How did you sleep?”

“Mmmph,” Zayn manages, his eyelids drooping as his own already half hard cock jerks in interest. He slides his hands around Harry’s hips and spreads his thighs so he’s straddling him properly. Their bare cocks catch together; it’s a little dry but that doesn’t stop the shudder that ripples down Zayn’s spine and makes his toes curl. “Fuck.”

“Woke up hard, dreaming about you.” Harry licks his palm and wraps it around their cocks, fisting them both roughly. “Wasn’t even sure you’d still be here, if I’m honest.”

“Are you— _ah_ , ah—surprised that I am?” Zayn’s thrusts his hips lazily into Harry’s grasp as his hands grip onto the swell of his ass.

“Pleased.” Harry grins. “Means now I get a chance to do this.”

Zayn whines as he lets go off his cock, his eyes shooting fully open to watch as Harry shuffles down the bed and starts lapping at the base of his cock with the flat of his tongue. When he sucks him down, Zayn has to stuff his fist into his mouth to stop from screaming so loud he’d wake the entire household.

When Zayn finally leaves the Styles mansion, early into the afternoon, clutching one shoe and his suit jacket to his chest and bolting to the road to find a cab, it’s with a promise in place. A promise of a time and a location.

Zayn takes one last look at the house and blows a kiss to its stone exterior, before hailing a cab.

_11pm. Queen Mary’s Gardens._

***

Their first rendezvous in the gardens doesn’t last long. It’s bitterly cold and pitch dark out—so much so that Zayn nearly trips straight into a thorny bush within a few moments of them stepping off the small bridge, gloved hands laced together.

They kiss and kiss beneath the moonlight until both of their noses are frosty cold and their teeth are chattering, forcing them to bid a reluctant goodnight with a promise to meet next in the daytime.

February becomes March and with it goes the frost, even if the cold lingers.

Sometimes, they simply talk for hours. About their families, often. Zayn doesn’t even have Harry’s phone number, can’t risk texting him when Harry is sure that his dad reads all his messages, looks into all the calls he gets.

“He’s not a bad man,” Harry explains, one sunny afternoon in March. “He’s just a protective man. He likes to be in control. And he can’t always understand that he might go too far in trying to maintain that control and protection.”

Harry is close with his sister and his mum, though; in much the same way that Zayn is close with his own three sisters. Zayn is more forthcoming with Harry than he might usually be; talking of how he misses his mum, of how he misses the man his dad had been, such a distant memory now.

Other days, they do nothing but kiss. They curl up with takeaway cups warming their palms—coffee for Zayn, hot chocolate for Harry—and warm their lips with each other’s, their drinks all but forgotten.

They don’t often get the opportunity to do much more than kissing, although Zayn sneaks into Harry’s bedroom by means of the ivy any chance he can get. But when he does, it’s frantic, adrenaline pumping through them as they pant against each other’s mouths and work to get the other off before someone can interrupt them or find them pressed together in the dim light of Harry’s room.

***

It’s a Friday night. Even if Zayn didn’t know this already, he would be able to tell from the bustle and crush of bodies as he walks down Marylebone Road, idly looking for a cab to return home. He’d spent the evening with Harry, who’d come bearing homemade treats he’d snuck from the house.

Zayn found many of them delicious. Even more so when he got to lick the taste of them from Harry’s tongue afterwards.

He tucks his face into the upturned collar of his coat as he walks, digging his hands deep into his pockets. He hides his smile into the wool there, his mind lingering on their evening together.

 _“Teach me something in Urdu.” Harry_   _grins, tilting his head up from where it’s resting on Zayn’s shoulder to look at him. His profile is illuminated in the low light of dusk by the streetlight behind him._

 _Zayn hums. He blinks slowly, long eyelashes casting beautiful shadows over his cheekbones._ “Main tumse pyar karta hoon _,” he articulates. “Now you try._ Main tumse pyar karta hoon. _”_

 _Harry repeats it carefully, although he struggles a little to formulate the sounds as clearly as Zayn does. He tries again, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “What does it mean?” He asks, when he thinks he’s gotten a better grasp over the syllables._  “Main tumse pyar karta hoon.”

_Zayn smiles one of his secretive smiles and tucks a kiss to Harry’s hairline. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe it’s crazy. But he means it. “I’ll tell you some other time.”_

Zayn catches a cab before he reaches Baker Street and nearly gives Harry’s address instead of his own first. But Harry had plans with his family for the night and Zayn didn’t want to intrude or take away from that time, knowing how important family was to his—

His. His  _something._  They haven’t used the word  _boyfriend_  yet and somehow it felt odd to do so when their meetings were so secretive, so hidden away. But  _lover_  sounds seedy somehow, as though they are having some illicit affair.

Zayn frowns. His Harry. Maybe that would have to do.

He is surprised to see lights on at home when he arrives, paying the cab driver and walking up the driveway to the front door. His dad’s car isn’t in the driveway—but Louis’ is. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Shutting the door quietly behind him, he hears a small thump from the living room.

“Niall! I gave you one job!”

Another thump.

“Ow!”

Zayn opens the door to find Niall rubbing his head, Louis brandishing a large cushion from the sofa.

“Intervention.  _I-N-T-E-R-V-E-N-T-I-O-N._ You’ve given me four  _n_ ’s and no  _r_!”

Niall ducks before Louis can hit him again. “We’ll just scratch it out, look.” He sticks his tongue between his teeth in concentration as he grabs a marker pen and scribbles through the arch of one of the formidable  _n_ ’s.

“What is that?” Louis screeches, stamping his foot. “Now that just looks ridiculous!” He’s dropped the cushion but the lettered pieces of card he’s clutching in his hands look no less threatening, somehow.

Zayn clears his throat from the doorway and slips inside, shrugging off his coat and toeing off his boots. He wriggles his toes into the carpet as the warmth seeps back into his bones. “Uhm. What are you two doing?”

Louis starts and squawks, flapping the letters around. “It’s— It’s a—“ He sighs. “Oh, for goodness sake.” He deposits the letters in a pile on the floor. “It’s an intervention.”

Niall looks forlornly at his discarded works of art on the floor and flops onto the sofa. “It was Louis’ idea.” He jabs a finger in his friend’s direction.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “There’s a surprise,” he mumbles. He folds his arms across his chest. “So? An intervention for what?”

Louis puts his hands on his hips. “You know what.”

“I really don’t.”

Niall stands up. “I’m going to get a beer,” he mumbles and scuttles out of the living room towards the kitchen.

Louis glares. He’s got marker pen on his cheek but Zayn decides not to mention it. “Harry.”

Zayn had managed to keep Harry a secret from the boys for all of two days before he’d burst and told them the entire story. Of how they’d met, of spending the night with him. (Louis and Niall had hurried the story along at that point and asked him to spare them the details.) They knew whom it was he’d been spending so much time with—and, given what Louis had told him, Liam was getting the same information from Harry. Zayn had tried more than once to pry information from Liam via Louis as to what Harry said about him but with no success.

“What about Harry?”

Louis sighs, his shoulders drooping. “I just want you to be careful, Zed. We— We both do.”

Niall creeps back into the room, brandishing a beer for each of them. “You’ve just been spending an awful lot of time together, that’s all.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Zayn responds defensively.

“Nothing, if you were doing normal things normal couples do. But all this sneaking around? It’s not a functioning relationship, Zayn; it’s a fantasy. It can’t last. You realise that, right?”

Zayn feels colour flare to his cheeks. He won’t admit it but he has considered it himself—there’s only so much of a future to be had when a relationship has to take place entirely in secret. “I never said it was ideal,” is all Zayn says. He scuffs his toes into the carpet and steadfastly ignores his friends’ pitying looks.

“You either need to end it or you need to figure out where this is going. Or else one or both of you is going to get seriously hurt.”

Zayn prickles. “It’s none of your business, Louis. And besides, how many months have you been sneaking around with Liam?”

“That’s different. The only reason we sneak around is because neither of us are ready to commit yet. And we’ve still had more public dates than you and lover boy have.”

“Or maybe both of you are ready to commit and you’re both just too chicken to admit it,” Niall mumbles into the lip of his bottle.

“Look, we’re not here to talk about me,” Louis snaps.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say that before,” Niall comments, eyeing Louis in wonder.

“And you won’t, ever again,” Louis retorts before turning back to Zayn. “I’m not saying this to upset you, Zayn. I’m just trying to stop my friend from getting hurt.”

“I can look after myself, Louis.”

Louis rolls his eyes and stomps towards the door. “ _Fine_. But don’t come crying to me when this all blows up in your face. And it will.”

“You don’t even know Harry,” Zayn protests. “You don’t know anything about him or our relationship!”

“I know that he loves his family. You told me that. And I can’t imagine that a guy that cares deeply about his family is going to see any future in a relationship that he can’t even share with them. A few shags maybe, but what more has he got to gain? What more do  _you_  have?”

Zayn recoils like he’s been slapped.

Louis shakes his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he mutters and slams the door shut behind him.

“Zayn—” Niall says from the sofa, standing up.

Zayn shakes his head. “No. Not tonight, I don’t want to hear anymore. Let yourself out, I’m going to bed.”

He’s never wished for Harry’s phone number so badly. To be able to call him up and have his soothing voice come down the other end of the line, to ease the tension that’s built up into his shoulders and is twisting in the pit of his stomach. Even to just receive a message, a simple message telling him that Louis’ wrong, that he wants Zayn, for more than just the thrill of a secret affair.

He curls up in his bed and tugs the blankets over his head, with every intention to wake Harry the next morning by climbing in through his balcony.

***

The Styles mansion is quiet as Zayn tiptoes around the driveway to the back, clambering up the ivy and vaulting himself over the balcony. Harry’s balcony door is unlocked, left that way exactly for this purpose. He’s asleep, sprawled out over the bed, the sheets rising and falling with every breath he takes.

Zayn strips down to his boxer briefs before crawling into the bed next to Harry, wrapping his limbs around him.

Harry shudders in his sleep and slowly his eyes blink open. “Hi,” he murmurs, his voice cracked with sleep. A smile gradually spreads its way over his lips. “Wasn’t expecting you so early.”

Zayn tucks his face into Harry’s neck. “Would have come last night but I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Never bothering me,” Harry whispers, trailing his fingers down the curve of Zayn’s spine. “You okay, love?”

Zayn nods, his hair tickling under Harry’s chin. He traces circles over Harry’s ribs, down his side, over his hip. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Harry pauses. “Sure?”

Zayn sighs softly and pulls his face from Harry’s neck. “Just kiss me?”

Harry grins lazily. “Always.”

What starts off as a chaste kiss quickly turns heated until Zayn has Harry pinned to the bed, their hips rocking together. Zayn can feel precome sticking to the front of his underwear, his balls heavy as he grinds against Harry’s hip.

“Want you to fuck me,” Harry whispers, his eyes half-lidded as he scrapes his fingers through Zayn’s hair and runs his hands down his back. “Please, Zayn. Need you.”

Zayn’s hips jerk almost of their own accord. “Fuck, I— Now? But what if—”

Harry cuts him off. “Shh, don’t care about any of that or anyone else. I just  _need_  you, fuck I— I’ve been thinking about it for  _weeks_ , having you inside me, filling me up.”

Zayn swallows roughly. If there’s one thing he loves about Harry, it’s how vocal he gets in bed, the filthiest nonsense spewing unfiltered from his lips.

_If there’s one thing he loves about Harry._

He bites on his lip to keep from saying it right there and then, in English this time, although it threatens on the tip of his tongue.  _I love you._

“Tell me how much you’ve been thinking about it,” Zayn says instead, scratching his hands down Harry’s bare torso.

Harry whines. “Thought about it last night. When I was in the shower,” he pants, lacing their hands together and pressing Zayn’s hand down the back of his underwear and under his ass. He nudges the tip of Zayn’s index finger towards his entrance.

It gives easily—still tight as Zayn slips in to the knuckle, but not so much so that Zayn doesn’t get a _very_  good idea of what Harry was doing in the shower.

Harry grinds back onto Zayn’s finger, pressing him deeper. “More,” he demands, tugging on a fistful of his own curls. “Please, Zayn, more.”

Zayn whispers assurances against his lips, shushing him between kisses as he fucks him with one finger slowly. “Don’t wanna rush this.” He swallows, looking down at Harry, the tips of their noses pressed together. “Harry, I lo—”

The door slams open.

“What is _this?”_

Zayn just has time to wipe his hand off on the bed sheets before he’s dragged from the bed by the shoulder, fingernails jabbing painfully into his bare skin. He cries out in pain, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes.

“Dad,  _stop_ ,” Harry yells, tumbling after them as Zayn is dragged towards the door.

He is whirled around to face Mr. Styles, his face livid with rage as he glares at him.

“Zayn Malik,” he sneers before he turns his gaze onto his son. “How foolish can you be, Harry? And here I thought you were growing into an intelligent young man.”

“Dad, please. Let him go.” Harry’s tone is gentler, calmer, even though Zayn can hear the edge of panic to his voice.

“I’ll deal with you later.”

Zayn is dragged from the room, the door slamming shut in Harry’s face.

Mr. Styles shoves a chair under the handle to trap him inside; Harry screaming and pounding on the door from inside. “I didn’t raise him like this. I didn’t raise him to be such an  _idiot_.” He turns to Zayn, his fingers nearly curling around his throat as he pulls him towards the stairs. “As for you.” He chuckles menacingly. “Well, you are smart, I’ll give you that. Or was this your father’s idea, hmm? To whore you out to my son? His newest tactic to destroy my company?”

“No, please,” Zayn begs, feeling dizzy as his heart slams against his ribcage, his airway somewhat restricted. He’s on the verge of either fainting or having a panic attack, or both. “It’s not like that. My dad doesn’t even know. I don’t  _care_  about the business, I care about  _Harry_. Mr. Styles, I love hi—”

Zayn is shoved out through the front door, gasping for air.

“Harry might buy that drivel, but I don’t. I don’t want to see you around here ever again, do you understand me? Stay away from my family,” Mr. Styles hisses and slams the door in Zayn’s face.

***

Zayn doesn’t dare go back to the house straight away, even if nothing Mr. Styles could say would be enough to keep him away for good. He goes to Queen Mary’s Gardens as soon as he’s warmed up again from catching a cab back home with nothing but his hands to cover his bare chest, his feet covered in grit and gravel from a painful walk down the driveway from the Styles mansion.

Zayn goes to Queen Mary’s Gardens that day, and the next day, and the one after that.

Harry doesn’t show.

Louis won’t answer his calls.

The best Niall can do is shrug and suggest that he get back on Louis’ good side so he can pry Harry’s number through Liam.

Zayn doesn’t do that. Instead, Zayn goes back to the house. He waits until it’s dark out and then he sneaks around the back. Someone’s cut back the ivy so it’s infinitely more difficult to climb up than it had been before but he doesn’t let that deter him. Not even when his foot slips and his stomach swoops into his throat and he has to squeeze his eyes shut a moment, hands fisted tightly into the straining ivy.

Harry’s room is dark save for the bedside lamp, casting a soft glow over the far end of the room from the balcony doors. Zayn steps over the threshold and into the room, wondering whether it would be safe for him to wait in here, wondering when Harry might be back.

Splayed out over the desk is one of the leather bound notebooks that Zayn recognises as the same kind he’d seen stacked up under the bed. It lies open, the pages filled with neat black handwriting.

Zayn likes to think he has a self-restraint, that he has been brought up with manners. Manners that firmly include  _not_  reading other people’s journals. Least of all the journals of those he cares so deeply about.

But when no footsteps approach the door, no sound but the quiet  _tick-tock_  of the clock on the nightstand, Zayn finds himself walking towards the desk. He touches his fingers to the pages, memorising Harry’s looping handwriting that fills the cream pages. He traces the first line of the page left open and stops short, an icy chill rolling down his spine.

_Dad thinks I was an idiot to fall for him, when he could only want me for one thing. But he didn’t realise that that’s what I was doing all along—playing Zayn to get what I wanted. To get as close as necessary to the Malik company and, then, when the time came, to break Zayn Malik. It might not have worked out quite as I hoped, but at least I got a little fun out of it in the meantime._

Zayn slams the journal shut before he can read anymore, stuffing his fist into his mouth to keep from crying out loud. His legs feel shaky and there are tears blurring his vision—he’s in no fit state to be clambering down dangerous ivy but he has no other choice. He needs to get out of Harry’s room before he throws up or, worse, before Harry finds him there.

What had it been that he’d heard Harry say that first night, right here in this room? He needed to get Zayn  _out of his system_. Apparently, he had. Apparently, he’d been playing Zayn all along. And Zayn had let him. Zayn had truly let himself believe that he cared.

He hisses as he drops to the ground at the bottom of the ivy, rubbing a hand over his ankle where he’d landed on it at a funny angle. It throbs gently but he can walk just about fine so he makes quickly for the road.

He briefly considers calling Louis, or Niall. But he can’t face the thought of their pity; let alone an  _I told you so_  lecture from Louis, that he knows he’d probably take great pleasure in giving.

What Zayn needs, he realises, is a drink. Or twenty.

Zayn doesn’t have many rules that he lives by—he doesn’t really like rules, in general. But if there’s one rule he tries to stick to, it’s that he doesn’t drink alone. He has done, in the past. Messy nights where he wanted to forget himself for a little while, that ended up with him doubled over, retching bile into the gutter, or with someone’s dick pressed up against his thigh and hot breaths against his ear. Nights that his father berated him for the next day, with a fistful of photos in his hand of Zayn, torn from the pages of some sleazy newspaper.

He doesn’t do that anymore; not if he can help it. He drinks socially. Carefully. And if he’s feeling miserable and wants a tequila shot or two to numb the pain, then Louis or Niall, or both, are with him. To wrap a blanket around his shivering body when they bring him home or to feed him pizza at dawn when he’s partied out. To get him to a bathroom when he vomits it all back up again a half hour later.

He nearly reaches for his phone half a dozen times as he takes a cab through the rumbling streets, heading east towards Camden. But he still doesn’t call them. He purposely picks a place out of the way of where he might usually spend an evening with friends, distancing himself from anything or anyone familiar.

Just like at the masquerade ball, when he’d stopped being Zayn Malik for the night, he wants to stop again. But for this night, he wants to be someone who doesn’t know of Harry Styles, or of business deals, or of parties where champagne flows like water. He doesn’t want any of it.

He has the cab driver drop him off before Camden Lock, stepping out into the cool air and tugging his coat tighter around his body. He pushes through people with no real sense of destination. He just wants the first bar he can find.

A group of girls around his age call out to him from across the street. They are every bit the Camden crowd: hair all colours of the rainbow with piercings right up the shell of their ears. Thick boots on their feet and rings dangling from their fingers.

“You look lost, love,” one of the girls coos as he crosses the street to them. She flicks her tongue piercing against the backs of her teeth as she grins, the metal glinting in the street lamp above.

Zayn glances up at the bar they are standing outside of, huddled to keep warm as a couple of them nurse the dying embers of a cigarette. The neon sign is cracked so only half of it lights up and part of the door is being held up by duct tape. He grins. “Not lost,” he assures her. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

The girl winks at him. “We’ll see you inside, then. Won’t we, gals?”

The other girls nod but seem largely disinterested now. One of them fixes him with a glare, her eyes flickering down his (admittedly expensive looking) wool coat down to his boots. “Sure,” she adds, her lip curling up.

Zayn slips past them into the bar but it’s busy, achingly so. The music pulses against the walls and the bar itself has bodies pressed up right down the length of it, everyone yelling orders over one another to a few sparse, irritated members of staff.

“On second thoughts,” he mutters to himself and turns on his heel, slamming straight into someone. “Sorry! Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was—”

A deep laugh cuts him off. “No harm done.” The man is tall and broad, chestnut hair pushed back across his head. His navy shirt is fitted but open at the collar, tucked into suit trousers, a thick coat draped over his shoulders. His blue eyes twinkle as he steps around Zayn, squeezing his bicep as he does, and Zayn gets a strong whiff of cologne. Zayn can pass himself off in this crowd, with his bleached hair, his pierced ears and nose, and the tattoos inked over his skin. But this man looks entirely out of place to the Camden scene. “Be seeing you,” the man says and pushes into the thick of the crowd.

Zayn doesn’t dwell on it, focusing on sneaking out back onto the street and ducking away before the girls can call him back. He walks past several more bars before he picks one to go into, finding it blissfully quiet compared to the first one he’d entered.

It’s not empty, by any means, but it’s quiet enough that he can select a seat by the end of the bar and get a bartender’s attention with little more than a raise of his hand. There’s a low, sexy beat playing and over in the booths on the other side of the bar, Zayn can see more than one couple tucked away, mouthing at each other’s necks with empty glasses spilling out over the tables in front of them.

It would do fine.

Zayn shrugs off his jacket and orders a drink. He orders the second before the bottom of his glass has even touched the bar again, and by the third, the bartender consents to leaving him the bottle and setting up a tab with Zayn’s credit card.

The bar gets louder and hotter as the night goes on. Each drink goes down easier than the last and Zayn feels the ache of the night’s earlier events lessen, replaced by the warmth of the alcohol thrumming through his veins.

He watches people coming and going—couples leaving, wrapped around each other. New ones appearing to take their place. Couples kissing, dancing, touching, no qualm or concern for who might be watching.

He chokes back a laugh as he reaches for the bottle to pour himself another. All the things he never did with Harry—for the sake of their families, for the sake of the  _business_. Or, at least, that’s what Harry had let Zayn believe. When all he really wanted was to fuck with Zayn’s head just that little bit more.

The end of the bottle misses the rim of the glass by a fraction, the musky scent of the booze hitting his senses as it spills out over the counter top. “Whoopsie daisy,” Zayn mumbles, setting the bottle down and trailing a finger through the liquid.

“Maybe you should slow down a little.”

Zayn licks his finger, sucking the rum from his skin as he looks up at the stranger. It’s the same man from earlier, the one who he’d knocked right into. Zayn releases his finger from his mouth with a dull _pop._  “That doesn’t sound like much fun,” Zayn counters and makes for the bottle again.

But the man is faster, catching it in his large hand and calling out to the bartender to take it away. He orders a glass of water and makes himself comfortable next to Zayn.

Zayn pouts, propping his chin up in his cupped hands and staring out over the bar. A glass of iced water is pushed in front of his nose.

“Drink,” the man urges. He has his whole body turned to Zayn, hands folded between his thighs. “You should drink it.”

Zayn sighs but does as he’s told in spite of it. The water feels cool against his throat and he gulps it down greedily, water dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and looks back to the man. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Cal.”

Zayn shakes it, Cal’s fingers curling tight around his hand, but says nothing.

“Don’t you have a name?”

Zayn hesitates. “It’s Za— Zac.” He winces, hoping his lies passes.

Cal doesn’t look convinced. “Zac?”

“Yes?” Zayn replies slowly before groaning and rubbing his hands over his face. Bright colours are popping in front of his eyes and he feels woozy. He swallows roughly and stares out over the length of the bar. “Zayn. My name is Zayn.”

“Zayn.” Cal smiles. “Does Zayn have a last name to go with that?”

“Just Zayn,” Zayn insists. He’s not a Malik tonight. He’s just Zayn.

Cal doesn’t look pleased by this answer but he accepts it nonetheless, turning from Zayn only so long as to order a drink for himself. “And another water, for Just Zayn here.”

Zayn doesn’t protest this time; he feels parched even after the glass of water he’d just downed. It’s doing nothing to help him feel more sober, though, the second glass going down as easily as the first. If anything, he feels drunker. His limbs feel loose and a loud laugh escapes his lips involuntarily, causing him to smack a hand over his mouth.

“What’s funny?” Cal asks, his eyes twinkling as he looks over at Zayn.

Zayn shakes his head and ducks his gaze, tracing patterns in the wood of the countertop.

“Come on.” Cal wraps a firm hand around his elbow and guides him towards one of the few empty booths in the corner of the room, away from the bar. It’s tucked around a corner, mostly out of sight of the rest of the bar and its customers. The lights are dimmer here, the bass louder, pressing against the walls as Zayn sits and tips his head back.

“You alright?” Cal murmurs, his breath fanning out hot against Zayn’s ear.

Zayn nods, his eyelids drooping. “Yeah, I’m just— Just don’t feel good.” He frowns and smacks his lips together, sighing out as he plucks at the collar of his shirt. “Too hot,” he whines.

Cal’s teeth nip at the shell of his ear and Zayn squirms at the touch. “Yeah, you’re plenty hot,” he whispers, fingers deftly undoing the first few buttons of Zayn’s shirt.

Zayn doesn’t try and push him away, tipping his head to the side to look at Cal. He’s everything Harry isn’t. He’s broad and muscular where Harry is lithe and soft. His skin is unadorned—at least as far as Zayn can see—where Harry’s body is a work of art in itself, inked all over. Cal smells like expensive cologne and vodka, where Harry smells like soap and something sweet.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” Zayn whispers as Cal’s hand skates under the material of his shirt, tracing one of the wings splayed out from the bright red lips. His lips have dropped to his neck, the brush of his stubble rough where he is used to Harry’s tender mouth. He tries to peer around the corner into the expanse of the bar. “People might see.”

Cal chuckles. “What people?” He pops the last buttons of Zayn’s shirt and pushes the material open over his chest. His hand falls to the button of his jeans. “There’s no one out there anymore.”

Zayn opens his mouth to protest, eyebrows knitted in confusion as he manages to push himself forward to see around the corner. Cal’s right—where the bar had been pleasantly busy before, it is empty now. The booths are empty; even the bar staff gone. “I don’t— I don’t understand,” Zayn whispers, falling back against the booth.

Cal shushes him gently. “It’s okay, Zayn. Just relax.”

Zayn closes his eyes and tips his head back, exhaustion settling deep into his bones.

“Feel better now?” Cal’s got his jeans open, but his hand hasn’t strayed any further than his bare stomach, scratching over his skin lightly.

Zayn nods. He does—he feels sated, light, warm. He feels like he could  _fly._  If only he weren’t so tired.

“There we go, Zayn Malik.” Cal laughs deeply into his ear.

“How do you—” Zayn slurs out before his head slumps to the side and he promptly passes out.

***

When Zayn wakes up the next morning, it’s to a pounding headache and the taste of stale vomit in his mouth. He blinks his eyes open warily, patting his hands over the sheets he is lying on. As fragments of the night before come back to him, he lets out a sigh of relief.

He is at home. He is in his own bed. He is alone.

He remembers coming to, draped over the booth with his jeans down around his thighs and his shirt off his shoulders. He remembers watching an older man he didn’t know pushing a thick wad of cash into Cal’s hands and another into the hands of a man holding a camera.

“Don’t worry,” Cal had sneered, as he pushed the money into his pocket and shot Zayn a lewd wink. “I didn’t touch you. Not getting paid nearly enough to do that.”

Zayn had thrown up three times on the way home, until all that was left to bring up was bile, acidic and scratchy against his throat.

Even in the light of the morning, as clear as his memories thankfully are, he can’t understand why. He stares up at the ceiling, the gap in the curtains sending in slivers of light that dance over the room. He can hear rain pattering against the window and cars splashing up water as they go past outside.

Perhaps it had been nothing more than fate, toying with him like a puppet on a string until he was spent and exhausted from it. First Harry, then Cal. Bad things come in threes, they say.

Zayn isn’t sure he can handle much more than what he has already endured.

He groans and rolls over onto his stomach, taking a breath to steady himself and how his gut lurches. As though there is anything left for him to bring up after last night.

There’s an angry buzzing sound coming from the pile of his clothes on the floor. Zayn reaches down blindly, digging his phone out of the mess and pressing it to his ear without checking the screen.

“‘ello?” His throat is scratched and hoarse; speaking, alone, is making him feel nauseous.

“Fuck’s sake,” Louis sighs out. “I’ve been calling for the past  _hour_ , Zayn.”

“Was asleep,” Zayn mumbles. He lets his eyes droop closed, clasping the phone tight to his ear.

“You just woke up?” Louis sounds cautious.

Zayn grunts out a yes.

“Denny’s, in half an hour.”

Zayn opens his mouth to protest that he doubts he’ll even make it out of his bed in the next half an hour, let alone all the way to their traditional hangover greasy spoon. But the line’s already gone dead and Zayn can’t face the idea of Louis storming over here instead and banging down his door to get him out of bed this morning. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

He makes it, barely. He doesn’t get as far as the shower—does little more than throw on some jeans and a hooded sweatshirt and scrub his teeth clean before he’s heading out. He tugs the hood up over his head when he gets outside, the rain lashing down cold and strong as he hails a cab and heads the few blocks over to meet the boys.

Louis and Niall are already inside, three breakfasts in front of them. Niall is halfway through his, forkful after forkful getting shoved inside his mouth. Louis is picking at his at a slower pace and he stops when the door swings open and Zayn joins them.

Zayn makes a face at the plate they’d ordered for him—full English, with extra eggs and no bacon or sausage—and pushes it away.

Niall only glances at him briefly before stealing one of the slices of toast off his plate.

Zayn looks at Louis. And he waits. He waits for the lecture, because by now he presumes Louis knows what happens with Harry, or else he wouldn’t have called. The only person who can hold a grudge longer than Zayn is Louis.

But it doesn’t come.

“Zed,” Louis says finally, his voice barely more than a murmur. “Mate, what happened?”

Zayn opens his mouth and snaps it shut again. “You were right. About Harry. It wasn’t real.”

Louis frowns. Even Niall stops eating. “Wait, what? Something happened with Harry?”

It’s Zayn’s turn to frown. “What were  _you_  talking about, if you didn’t mean what happened with Harry?”

Louis and Niall exchange a look before Louis slowly pulls out his phone. He pulls something up on the screen and turns it to Zayn with hesitance in his movements.

 _EXCLUSIVE!_   _Party boy—_ Zayn grunts and rolls his eyes— _Zayn Malik in a wild night…gone too far_

Zayn doesn’t give the article the courtesy of his full attention, skipping through the paragraphs on why it’s no wonder his father doesn’t trust him to have a place on the company (not strictly true—his father has asked many times and  _he’s_  said no) and an “expert’s” opinion on why it’s time Zayn seeks professional help for his “addictions”.

He pushes the phone away. “What the fuck is this, Louis?”

“You need to keep going,” Louis insists, scrolling to the bottom of the article. “There’s… There’s photos.”

The man with the camera. The wad of cash tucked into his greasy fist.

Zayn pinches the screen to enlarge the photos, bile creeping up the back of his throat as he looks at them. It’s him, very obviously so with the tattoos on his chest and arms exposed. He looks high and fucked out, his eyes rolled back into his head against the black leather of the booth. The table has been staged, he presumes while he was passed out, with empty glasses and traces of white powder, a credit card tossed carelessly beside it.

He can barely make out Cal in most of them, just the edge of his thigh or his shoulder creeping in. Save for the last photo, although even then he is unrecognisable with his face turned from the camera. He’s got his hands spreading Zayn’s thighs, his body over Zayn’s.

Zayn hurls the phone back at Louis and quickly presses his head between his knees, sucking oxygen in through pursed lips. “What the fuck, what the fuck,” he mutters under his breath, chanting it like a prayer.

He barely hears the bell above the door chiming as someone else walks in or Louis cry of surprise, before he’s yanked to his feet by the shoulder and a fist lodges itself into his face.

“Liam!” Louis screeches, diving at Liam to try and pull him back. “Stop, he’s—”

Whatever Louis tries to protest does nothing, the next punch going straight to Zayn’s stomach.

Zayn doubles over and retches, but nothing comes out.

“Hey! Take it outside or I’m calling the police!”

Zayn feels woozy, his legs useless beneath him as he is dragged out onto the street. “Just— Please, I, just let me—”

Liam’s fist crunches into Zayn’s nose but then the pressure of his hand on Zayn’s shoulder loosens.

Zayn crumbles to the ground. His nose is bleeding profusely; he can taste the coppery blood dripping over his top lip and into his mouth. His right eye feels swollen and he can’t see straight out of it. He’s shaking all over, the ground beneath him damp from the rain.

He tilts his head up in time to see Niall smack his hand straight into Liam’s jaw.

“Leave him alone!” Niall shouts, driving his knee into Liam’s crotch.

Louis manages to drag Liam back before he can retaliate, murmuring something Zayn can’t make out to him.

Liam’s shoulders slump and his fists fall loose at his side. He blinks, his gaze shifting to where Zayn lies on the ground. His face falls at the sight and he shakes his head, turning into Louis.

Niall clutches his fist to his chest as he drops to Zayn’s side. “Mate, are you okay?” He balls up the sleeve of his sweatshirt and presses it to Zayn’s nose, trying to stop the worst of the bleeding.

There’s a wail of sirens and Zayn groans. He lets his eyes slip shut even though Niall begs him to keep them open. He can hear Louis calling his name, too; even Liam is, his laced with apologies.

Apparently apologies aren’t enough to keep them from being taken down to the station.

Someone gives Zayn an icepack for his eye before they shove him into a holding cell, the other three already inside. He sinks to the floor by the wall and curls his knees up to his chest.

“Zayn.” Liam looks pale and frightened. Louis’ hand is locked around his, their knuckles white as they hold onto each other. “Zayn, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I was just so angry. Harry’s…” He shakes his head. “I’ve never seen Harry like I did this morning. He’s so upset.”

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut and bites at the tip of his tongue. “It wasn’t what it looked like,” he protests in a murmur. But isn’t that what they all say? He barks out a bitter laugh because, really, why should they believe him?

Niall is the one that comes to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders tightly. “Zayn, what really happened last night? You can tell us. We’ll believe you. We love you, okay?” He lifts his head to glare at Liam. “At least  _some_  of us do.”

“I said I was sorry,” Liam mumbles, looking miserable as he leans back against the wall.

Louis kisses his shoulder. “Just give them time,” he whispers, ignoring Zayn and Niall completely for the moment. “You did kind of smash his pretty face in.”

Niall kisses Zayn’s cheek. “The prettiest face.”

Zayn tries to smile but he winces, pressing the icepack to his jaw. His eye throbs underneath the chill the icepack has left. “It all started a few nights ago,” he begins, swallowing around the stale taste in his mouth.

*

No one moves for a long moment after Zayn finishes his story. It’s Liam who eventually breaks the tableau, slipping over to the bars of the small cell and calling out to one of the officers that he’s ready to take his one allocated phone call now.

Niall stays a steady constant by Zayn’s side, his clammy hand tucked around Zayn’s. But he doesn’t say anything. Even Louis is uncharacteristically quiet, his face pinched into a frown.

Liam returns shortly, saying nothing as he returns to Louis’ side. One by one, the other boys fall asleep, even though it can barely be afternoon outside. All sense of time is warped inside the cell, the fluorescent lights and the dull sounds of phones ringing created a paradoxical loop. They might have been there ten hours or ten minutes, for all Zayn can tell.

Zayn doesn’t sleep, despite how exhausted he is and his penchant for being able to fall asleep anywhere, anytime. He’s got a pounding headache still, the cold press of the stone wall behind his head doing nothing to help. Niall’s drooling on his shoulder and where, other times, Zayn might be endeared, now he shrugs him off so his head slumps over his own chest.

His fingers tap off his thigh restlessly. He’d kill for a cigarette, the press of the pack prominent in his pocket. How much harm could it really do for him to light up in here? He’s already in trouble—what difference could it make now?

He’s just tucking his fingers into the lip of his pocket when footsteps approach their cell. The same grim-faced officer who’d locked them in is unlocking the heavy door and opening it up.

Zayn doesn’t even have the energy to scramble to his feet and push towards the door before they can change their minds and keep them in here. “Lads,” he calls out, not taking his eyes off the door. “Rise and shine.”

The officer grunts. “Horan, Malik, Payne, Tomlinson,” he reads off the sheet in his hand. “You’re free to leave. Try and keep from beating the shit out of each other in the middle of town again, alright, boys?”

Zayn accepts the hand Niall offers to help him to his feet and follows last after the boys out of the cell. He’s the last into the main reception of the station, so he’s the last to see who it is that’s come to bail them out.

Harry’s got his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, his curls springing free from a messy bun perched on the back of his head. He hugs Liam, and even Louis and Niall, too—but his gaze is fixed on Zayn the entire time he does so.

Zayn doesn’t hang around, pushing past their little group and kicking the door open. He perches on the edge of the bottom step from the police station down to street level, finally tucking the cigarette between his lips and sparking his lighter with a flick of his thumb.

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, the nicotine flooding his system. He feels his heart rate drop a few notches and he leans back onto the step, blowing smoke up into the cloudy sky.

“Zayn.”

Zayn doesn’t respond, flicking ash to one side.

But Harry is nothing if not persistent. “Zayn.” His voice is so soothing and familiar that Zayn has to stop himself from melting into it when Harry sits by his side, the heat of his thigh pressed against Zayn’s cold one.

“It wasn’t you, was it?” Zayn says quietly, watching the end of his cigarette glow fiery orange. “The diary. It was a set up.” It’s something he’d been thinking about in the cell, the words he’d read turning around his head. Handwriting he couldn’t even be truly sure was Harry’s.

“It wasn’t me,” Harry whispers. He presses his forehead to Zayn’s shoulder. “Liam told me everything. I think— The diary, Cal, the photographer… My—“ He shudders.

Zayn closes his eyes. A dry smile curls at the corner of his lips. “Your dad doesn’t fuck around, does he?” He laughs bitterly. His hand shakes a little as he takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I’m so sorry, Zayn.” Harry’s hands curls around his elbow, his lips pressing kisses to his closed shoulder and then one to his cheek. “I can’t even say how sorry I am.”

Zayn shakes his head. “Not your fault.”

“It is, a little. And you can’t stop me from being sorry, Zayn. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

“Maybe it was worth it.” Zayn crushes the dull end of his cigarette against the concrete step and kicks it away with the toe of his boot. “For the time we got.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “For the time that I got with you. I was so happy, Harry.’’ He finally lets himself look at Harry.

His wide green eyes are turned up towards him. A frown etches into Harry’s forehead. “Why are you talking in the past tense?” He murmurs, his fingers digging tighter into Zayn’s arm.

Zayn wants to say he can’t do this again. That he can’t set himself up to get hurt again; that he doesn’t want to wake up another morning sick with the memories of the night before or to sit in a police cell littered with bruises. But he can’t say it because he knows that if it means he can have more time with Harry, he’d do it all again.

“Come with me.” Harry moves his hand to Zayn’s, lacing their fingers together.

Zayn hesitates.

“Not to my house. I have somewhere for us to go. Please. Trust me?”

Zayn looks up the steps to where Niall, Louis and Liam are stood, huddled together in the cool air, watching the two of them.

“You can come with me, if you’d rather not go home yet,” Louis offers, licking his lips before he nods his head to Harry. “But you can trust Harry. I’m— I shouldn’t have said what I did about him, about the two of you, before. He’s good for you.”

Zayn stands up and gives Harry’s hand a squeeze. “Lead the way.”

*

Somewhere turns out to be a hotel suite. Zayn keeps his head down as Harry leads him in through the marbled lobby, more to hide the bruising and cuts on his face than out of fear that someone might spot the two of them together.

Harry has clearly already been here before bringing Zayn. There are a few items of clothing tossed over a chair and various products lined up along the bathroom counter. The bed doesn’t look like it’s been slept in, though.

Harry guides him to the bathroom and strips him down with gentle hands. His touch is tender over the red marks forming over Zayn’s torso and the kiss of his lips is warm when he presses them to each of Zayn’s closed eyelids.

He undresses himself too before they step into the shower together. There’s more than enough room for the two of them under the large showerhead, the spray drumming rhythmically over their shoulders and sliding down their backs.

Harry wets a cloth and uses it to clean the dried blood from Zayn’s face, taking special care over the cut on his upper lip. He lets the cloth fall to the floor and then he kisses him, cupping Zayn’s face in his large hands.

Zayn is exhausted, can barely keep himself up right let alone kiss Harry back. He lets out a small whimper as Harry’s hands smooth over his short hair and he feels himself falling into him. Zayn latches his arms tightly around Harry’s body, panting softly as his face drops to the crook of his neck.

“I’ve got you,” Harry’s whispering. “I’ve got you, love.” He helps him out of the shower and wraps him up in a warm towel, drying him off and giving him a pair of his own sweatpants.

They’re too big on him and the ankles drag over the floor as Zayn stumbles his way to the bed with Harry’s arm tight around his waist. He lets himself be tucked up like a child, Harry’s fingers tracing patterns over his cheek and down his neck.

“ _Main tumse pyar karta hoon_ ,” Harry says quietly, the tip of his nose pressed to Zayn’s. “What does it mean?”

Zayn’s eyelids are already halfway closed, his breathing evening out. “It means,” he murmurs. “Means I love you. _Main tumse pyar karta hoon_.”

Harry’s breath catches. “Do you? Do you love me, Zayn?”

Zayn hums. “ _Jee haan_.” He smiles dopily, his eyes closing fully. “That means yes.”

*

The clock on the nightstand reads 8:55pm when Zayn awakes—he’s been asleep for five hours or so, he reckons. At some point, Harry had fallen asleep too. He’s got one leg wrapped around Zayn’s waist, their bodies still pressed chest to chest, just as Zayn had closed his eyes to.

Harry’s cock is pressed into the crook of Zayn’s hip and he’s hard.

Zayn’s still tired. His torso aches slightly from the punches he’d taken there earlier in the day. And he’s acutely aware that he hasn’t eaten all day.

But all of that feels insignificant to the boy curled into him. Harry shifts in his sleep, his cock grinding into Zayn’s thigh. His breathing hitches and his eyelashes flutter, a dry whimper falling from his lips.

Zayn tucks his face into the crook of Harry’s neck, skimming his lips lightly over his warm skin. He sucks a mark into his skin, the sound loud and obscene in the quiet of the room. The only other sound is Harry’s breathing. It’s picking up, becoming more erratic as he slowly comes to.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, his throat scratchy as he wakes, his head tipping back.

Zayn presses his tongue against the mark he’s left and grins as Harry squirms, hips jerking forward. He runs the palm of his hand over the broad expanse of Harry’s back, tracing out words into the dip of his spine.

_I love you._

Harry’s hands push at Zayn’s sweatpants, his legs kicking back the blankets that are up around their waists. “Need you,” he whispers, his eyes hooded as he presses his lips to the corner of Zayn’s mouth. “Fuck me, Zayn.”

Zayn presses Harry down against the mattress with a hand to his hip, leaning over him. He makes a path down his chest with his lips, nipping at the skin above his belly button. “Yeah?” Zayn’s breath fans out over Harry’s torso.

Harry wriggles and huffs out a sigh. “ _Zayn_.”

Zayn is too turned on, too desperate for it himself to be teasing Harry before he’s even gotten him out of his boxer briefs. His arms are a little shaky where he’s holding himself up, the head of his cock pressing up out of the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants that Harry has successfully managed to shove to halfway down his ass but not much further.

He sits back on his heels to shed himself of the offending sweatpants before dragging Harry’s boxers down his thighs and tossing them to the floor. He tiptoes his fingers up the insides of Harry’s thighs, nosing at the crook of his hip, next to his cock that’s curved up towards his stomach.

Harry pointedly tosses a small packet of lube and a condom that he’s managed to forage from somewhere at Zayn’s head.

Zayn lifts his head and quirks an eyebrow, taking a moment to admire how Harry looks right now. Flushed all over, a light sheen of sweat over his collarbones. His chest is heaving and when Zayn swipes the flat of his tongue over the head of Harry’s cock, he jerks and cries out.

The sound makes Zayn shudder and he reaches greedily for the packet of lube, tearing it open with his teeth and making a mess of his fingers as he coats them with slick. He crooks Harry’s knee up with one hand and slips a hand under his ass. He teases two fingers over his rim before pressing in with one.

Harry responds so well, his back arching, body pressing down to take more of Zayn’s finger as he crooks in deeper. “Mmm—more. ‘nother,” he murmurs, sighing languidly when Zayn complies.

Zayn creeps his fingers in deep before adding a third, curling up inside of him. His own cock jerks, leaving a smear of precome against his thigh as Harry wails, trying to fuck himself back onto Zayn’s fingers.

At some point, Harry’s phone starts ringing from the nightstand, vibrating persistently against the wood. Harry smacks it to the floor, the sound muted as it buzzes against the carpet, instead.

“Now, fuck, Zayn— _please_. I’m gonna come if you don’t, please, love,” Harry begs when the sound finally silences. His eyes are blown black as he looks up at him in desperation. His hands come up to wrap around Zayn’s biceps as he leans over him.

Zayn silences his rambling by sealing his mouth over Harry’s as he fumbles to roll the condom on and slick himself up. He presses against Harry’s entrance, murmuring his name like a prayer against his lips.

Harry’s nails dig into Zayn’s skin when he starts to press inside, both of them holding their breath until Zayn’s hips hit flush against his ass. Harry curls his legs around Zayn’s waist, heels pressing in against the small of his back. “Fuck me,” he commands in a low voice, a dazed smile tugging at his lips.

Zayn chuckles, sparks of pleasure flaring down his spine as he rocks into the tight heat of Harry’s ass. Nothing has ever felt so intimate, their noses bumping with every thrust of his hips, his forearms braced at either side of Harry’s head. He digs his knees into the bed so he can fuck him harder, faster, the mattress shifting with the force of it. The headboard starts smacking dully against the wall and Zayn loses himself in the smell, touch, taste, feel of Harry.

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” Zayn chants, the words slurring together.

“Gonna come,” Harry gasps, his toes curling against Zayn’s back as he catches his prostate over and over again. Harry lets go of one of Zayn’s arms to fist himself, barely more than giving himself a squeeze before he’s coming in hot stripes between them.

Zayn curses loudly as Harry clenches around him, Harry’s ragged breathing hot in his ear as he drops his face to his neck. He fits his mouth back over the mark he’d left there before and comes with a cry, his hips stuttering.

For a moment, neither of them move. Harry’s hand cups the back of Zayn’s neck, scratching at the short hairs there. “I love you,” he whispers, and Zayn can hear the smile in his voice.

Zayn only leaves the room so long as to get a cloth to clean them up with, disposing of the tied up condom on the way. But when he returns, Harry’s already up, tugging his jeans up his legs and throwing a shirt over his torso. The cloth hits with the floor with a dull smack. “You’re leaving?” Zayn feels the world sway around him.

Harry buttons up his jeans and then rushes to him, cupping his face in his hands. He presses their foreheads together. “I have to go.” He kisses him fiercely and tries to pull away.

Zayn cries out and locks his hands around Harry’s wrists. “No. Harry,  _no_. You can’t just—”

Harry cuts him off with another kiss. His eyes look dull and muted. “It was my mum, who called. My dad, he—” Harry shudders and makes a choked off noise. “There was an accident. He was hit by a car.”

Zayn’s jaw goes slack. “Harry,” he breathes out.

“I know; I know he… He hurt you and I might never forgive him for that but. He’s still my father.” Harry’s hands are shaking as he tugs one of his rings from his finger. It’s large and silver, a jet black stone set into the band. He takes one of Zayn’s hands and slips the ring onto his third finger where it fits snugly.

Zayn wriggles his fingers slowly around the new addition, admiring it for half a second before he looks up at Harry.

“A promise to you,” Harry tells him, holding his hand tightly in his own. “A promise that I’m coming back to you.” He brings Zayn’s hand to his lips and kisses the center of his palm before pressing the flat of Zayn’s palm against his chest, above where his heart lies.

“Go,” Zayn murmurs, touching his fingers to Harry’s jaw. “Go be with your family.”

*

Zayn feels refreshed and sated by the time he returns home. But even with that, even with the cool press of the ring Harry had given him around his finger, he’s apprehensive as he steps through the door. He’d texted Waliyha before he’d left the hotel, letting her know that he was fine and that he’d be home soon, but it’s quiet inside as he closes the door behind him.

He makes it as far as his room without encountering anyone, finding Safaa sitting in the armchair in the corner of his room. “You okay?”

Safaa nods, looking him up and down. He’d pulled Harry’s sweats back on before he’d left, paired with his blood stained sweatshirt. “Dad’s in Brussels for a meeting. He’ll be back the day after tomorrow.” She tucks her knees up to her chest and turns her attention back to the book in front of her.

Zayn breathes out a sigh of relief. He pauses to kiss the top of her head on his way to the bathroom, clean clothes tucked under his arm.

“Zayn?”

He turns.

“Are  _you_  okay?”

He nods and skims the fingers of his other hand over the black gemstone of the ring. “I’m good. Yeah.”

She doesn’t look convinced but she lets him go, all the same. And maybe she knows him better than he knows himself because even with the couple of days’ grace that he has been granted, the nerves start bubbling in the pit of his stomach as he strips out of his clothes. He decides to shower again, reaching for the packet of black hair dye he’s had waiting since he had it bleached. His hair is growing out fast and there’s something satisfying in watching the dregs of the black dye swirl down the drain.

When he steps out of the shower, he stops in front of the mirror and surveys his changed appearance.

He looks rejuvenated. He looks confident. He looks like the man Zayn thinks he wants to be.

***

The nerves remain over the coming days, though; building and growing as he comes to terms with the deal he is to put in front of his father. He’s heard from Harry briefly; a surprise phone call facilitated by their mutual friends. It’s not enough for how much he misses him, but it’s enough to get his blessing for what he is about to do. And to hear three words before he falls asleep that serve to calm his worries some.

When the time comes, his knees feel wobbly. He takes the stairs down to his father’s study one at a time. The heavy wooden door is slightly ajar.

Zayn knocks once before slipping inside.

Yaser looks at him. His approving look at the renewed state of his hair slips when he takes in the cuts and the bruising. The cuts are still swollen and the bruises have turned a vile shade of yellow. “Should I ask?”

Zayn shrugs and shuffles into the chair opposite him at the desk. “Probably not.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw and flinches as he catches one of the bruises. “Misunderstanding.”

Yaser hums, staring him down. “And those photos—those photos that I paid good money to have scrapped from existence. Were those, too, a  _misunderstanding?”_

Zayn swallows. “Yeah, I’d… I’d say so. It’s a long story.”

“Isn’t it always with you,” he replies dryly. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “ _Beta_ , I don’t know what to say to you anymore. I thought we were past this. The  _partying_. I gave you time. You said if I gave you time, you would find some direction and if this is the direction that you’ve chosen, then I won’t support it.”

“It wasn’t—“ Zayn bites his lip. “It wasn’t like that.” He straightens up. “In fact, I’d—I’d like to come work for the company. But I have a few conditions.”

Yaser looks surprised, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairlines. He leans back in his chair and gestures for Zayn to continue.

“First, I’d like to develop a new charity branch, to help families in unsuitable living conditions to be relocated. I’d like to head that branch, with the assistance of some of your trusted advisors, if you can spare them, while I find my feet. I have no interest in heading up the whole company and I’d never take that away from Doniya. We both know how hard she’s worked to prove herself.”

Yaser’s nodding, a small smile on his lips. “That is very innovative and conscientious thinking, Zayn. I will happily agree to all of that. And, frankly, Doniya is far better at bossing everyone around than you ever were.”

Zayn holds up a hand. “I’m not quite finished. I have one other condition. The fighting with the Styles family will come to an end and the companies will enter into a partnership. Pooling resources and initiatives to make the work go even further and count for more.”

Yaser snorts. When he realises Zayn is serious, the smile slips from his face. “And what makes you think that Styles family would ever agree to this?”

“As of this morning, Harry Styles officially holds full control of the company. And Harry is already in agreement. He’ll be happy to sign all the necessary papers as soon as he has had time to mourn the passing of his father with his family in private.” Zayn smiles and twists the ring around his finger. “So, that leaves me with just one question. Do you accept my conditions?”

***

The announcement is made on a Friday, at a cocktail party hosted at the Styles’ mansion. There is a subdued tone to the event, not least in the wake of Des’ passing, but also with the guests’ general confusion at the other people they find to be present.

Harry’s nervous, Zayn can see it in his movements. He tugs down the cuff of one sleeve and then the other, repeating this pattern as he stands to the side of the grand staircase, preparing for what he is going to say.

Zayn steps in front of him and slides his hands up over his arms. “Relax,” he murmurs, sneaking a quick glance around them before he touches his lips to Harry’s. “You’re going to be great.”

Harry swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Is Doniya here yet?”

Zayn nods. “She’s right over there, with our father.” Doniya, who will take over the company over the course of the next year, is entirely in favour of the partnership. And Yaser is, too, but Zayn knows that Harry is more wary of his support than he is of Doniya’s. “I’ll be right at the front, the entire time. Just look at me. Just talk to me.”

Harry smiles gratefully and kisses his cheek, walking towards the stairs as Yaser and Doniya do the same from the other side of the room.

Zayn eases his way through the partygoers, finding Niall, Louis and Liam near the front of the crowd, at the foot of the stairs.

“How’s he doing?” Liam asks.

“He’ll be fine,” Zayn assures him. He glances over at Niall, whose gaze is fixed on the three figures on the stage.

“Zayn, is Doniya seeing anyone?”

Zayn folds his arms across his chest. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Niall sighs and then yelps as Zayn gives him a gentle shove.

Louis shushes them all. “They’re about to do it.”

Harry steps forward, Yaser and Doniya standing just behind him. “Ladies and gentlemen. I want to thank you all for being here and I would also like to take this opportunity to thank you all for the support you’ve given me and my family over the past few weeks. It has been greatly appreciated.

“My father left behind an incredible legacy. But it is a legacy that is tarnished by an unnecessary and toxic rivalry that developed between our family and the Maliks.” Harry clears his throat, his eyes fixed on Zayn. “That ends here.”

Yaser and Doniya step forward.

“From this day forward, our two companies will be combined, to continue the good work that both my father, and Yaser Malik, have been doing for many years. Together, we will reach further. Together, we will do better. I look forward to working with Yaser and, in time, with his daughter, Doniya.”

“I’m sure it is no surprise to anyone here that the eldest, and arguably the most intelligent, of my children will be taking my place as head of the Malik side of business within the next year,” Yaser adds on from Harry. “In turn, my son, Zayn, will be developing his own branch within the company, working from a charitable angle that we had yet to explore.”

He turns to Harry with a grin. “Although, I needn’t sing Zayn’s praises with Harry here.”

The room laughs; Harry and Zayn’s relationship quickly becoming the worst kept secret in London when, with the passing of Harry’s father, they stopped worrying about the threat of being seen together.

Harry gestures a hand towards Zayn. “Zayn, will you come up here and join us?”

Zayn feels his cheeks colour as he climbs the stairs one at a time to stand beside Harry. He slips his hand through Harry’s and feels his boyfriend’s fingers close around the ring on his finger.

“Any other news? An engagement, maybe?” Louis heckles from the audience. He probably would have continued, too, if Liam hadn’t clamped a hand over his mouth to stop him from yelling anything else.

Zayn turns his face into Harry’s shoulder as Harry chuckles.

“Not today,” Harry tells their audience.

“Besides, he’s got to get our blessing first.” Doniya grins, before raising the champagne glass in her hand. “Ladies and gentlemen. Let us raise a glass. To the blossoming partnership—or,  _partnerships_ , even—between the Styles and the Malik families.”

“To the Styles and Malik families,” the crowd choruses back.

“To Zayn and Harry!” Niall adds, the crowd agreeing with enthusiastic hollers.

Harry tips his head around to face Zayn. “To you, my love,” he whispers.

Zayn forgets their audience, forgets the room around them, as he presses a kiss to Harry’s upper lip. “And to you,  _meri jaan_.”

***

Zayn clears his throat as they settle into their front row seats, the theatre quietly buzzing with a full opening night audience. He smooths out the programme over his lap, flipping it open to the cast list. He cracks a grin at Louis’ name in the listing, tilting it to show it to Liam.

Liam blushes a little, touching his fingers to the photo that sits above Louis’ name. “It’s a good picture,” he comments, pride tinted in his smile.

The lights dim over the auditorium, Harry, by his other side, entwining their hands. His thumb dips over the bumps of his knuckles and Zayn has to make do clapping his hand off his thigh as the lights come up on the opening scene.

Liam more than makes up for it with his loud hollers of support; Niall, at the end of the row, nearly as loud as he whistles.

The young actress playing Juliet leans against the makeshift balcony, Louis’ Romeo crouched down nearby listening in as she delivers her lines.

_“What’s in a name? that which we call a rose  
_ _By any other name would smell as sweet;  
_ _So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,  
_ _Retain that dear perfection which he owes  
_ _Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,  
_ _And for that name which is no part of thee  
_ _Take all myself.”_

Louis steps forward to respond but Zayn finds himself looking at Harry, instead. The stage lights illuminate his face even in the dark of the theatre as he turns his head to meet Zayn’s gaze. They share a chaste kiss; anything Zayn would wish to say in that moment conveyed in the press of his lips and the knot of his fingers around Harry’s.


	2. Epilogue

_Five years later_

Zayn awakes slowly to a rustling at the end of the bed. He peels his eyes open and peeks down the length of the bed, the blankets all twisted up around his andHarry’s legs. He can just see his husband’s feet poking out of the end of the blankets. His feet twitch of their own accord as the rustling starts up again.

Small hands fisting into the sheets. He hears a huff of frustration, a mess of chestnut curls peeking into sight before they disappear again.

“Aya, baby? Do you need some help?” Harry, beside him, asks in a murmur.

“No,” comes the response from the end of the bed. “Aya do it all by Aya’s self.”

Zayn tilts his head around to look at Harry.

He looks back at him, one arm propped up behind his head and a fond smile on his lips. “She gets that stubbornness from you, you know.”

Zayn lets out a grunt as Aya latches her hand around his ankle and uses it to help haul herself up onto the bed with a satisfied squeal.

Aya crawls her way up the bed monkey-style. She’s still in her sleeping onesie, her chubby pink legs swinging their way up the bed, her arms doing a similar action. Her hair’s all stuck up on end—just like Harry’s looks first thing in the morning—her lips pursed in concentration. She arrives with an  _oof_  to the head of the bed and sits down on Zayn’s chest.

Zayn grins and tips his head up to blow a raspberry against her clothed tummy. He loves her tummy, the round curve of it and the little bubble of her belly button.

Aya bats at Zayn’s face, nearly poking him in the eye. “Baba,  _stop_ ,” she says but giggles all the same.

Zayn hums and lets his eyes slip closed again, playing with her little toes. They wriggle and curl under his touch.

“Baba, wake up, please.”

“M’awake,” Zayn mumbles, his eyes still closed.

“He’s awake,” Harry assures her.

“Daddy and Baba  _not_  go to work today,” Aya declares emphatically. “Daddy and Baba stay with Aya.”

Zayn drags his eyes open. “Is that so, baby? And what will we do today, hmm?”

“Daddy and Baba and Aya eat pancakes and go to the park and do some colouring and have a cuddle,” Aya lists, nodding her head.

“That sounds like a perfect day,” Zayn agrees. He looks over at Harry. “Daddy will stay with you, baby.”

Harry nods, rolling onto his side to curl around his family. “I’ll be here with you, sweetheart. We can do all those things  _and_  make dinner for when Baba gets home.”

When Aya had first been born, a surrogacy with her being biologically Harry’s (not that that stops Baba from being her favourite most days, Zayn notes smugly. Except for during bath time—then Daddy’s her favourite because he makes the ducks sing) they had both worked part-time, keen to make the most of their first months as a family.

But Zayn had gone back to working full-time earlier in the year, while Harry kept to his part-time arrangement, so he could spend half the week at home with Aya. Gemma had taken well to her new joint position with Harry, leading the Styles’ side of the partnership.

“Daddy  _and_  Baba stay with Aya,” Aya repeats. She jabs Zayn in the chest. “Baba  _not_  go to work.”

Zayn sighs. “Baba really should go to work,  _jaan_. Baba’s got lots of important things to do.”

“No!” Aya shrieks. “No! Important things are Baba cuddling Aya!” She wraps her short arms around his neck and squeezes him until Zayn has to bat her off so he doesn’t choke from the force of it.

Zayn looks over at Harry, who is mimicking perfectly Aya’s doe-eyed expression, eyelashes batting just so. Or, perhaps, Aya is mimicking Harry, very much her father’s daughter in some respects. “She got  _that_  one from you,” he mumbles.

“Please, Baba,” Aya coos. “Pretty please. With cake on top.”

Harry chuckles. “The cherry goes on top, baby. The cherry on top of the cake. Or icing. Whichever you prefer.”

Aya seems disinterested by this clarification. _“Please_.” She’d gotten better with her “please” and “thank you” recently—although she had still to learn that saying please didn’t automatically mean she would be given what she wanted.

Zayn pats around for his phone on the nightstand, jabbing a button and putting it to his ear. “Hey, Don. Can you handle the Parsons deal today, do you think?” He fakes a cough. “I’m not feeling great, to be honest.” He licks his lips. “Yeah. …yeah. Great. Thanks, babe, appreciate it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

If Doniya hears Aya’s delighted squeal of “pancakes!” before Zayn has a chance to hang up the phone, then so be it. Even Zayn Malik of  _Styles-Malik Living_  needs a day off every now and again.

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "Modern day Romeo and Juliet where Harry and Zayn are from two rival families/businesses/groups and they fall in love even when they're not suppose to. Basically looking at the conflict of different forces. It could be the families are rivals because of business or race or religion or just anything, but I like the forbidden star crossed lovers thing. Please don't let anyone die; I know the story and everything but I want this to end happily - although super cliche- but at least not one of the boys."
> 
> Given that you wanted to keep away from the death-driven tragic side of R&J, I decided not to get too tied up into specific step-by-step plot of the original, and drew instead from a couple of the key themes: forbidden love and misunderstandings. I really hope you enjoyed this fill, and thank you for the inspiring prompt!
> 
> Massive thank you to my beta, for all her help and for not telling me I was insane when I started changing the entire POV of my fic, like, a week before it was due.
> 
> And finally, re: the bits of Urdu I used in this fic. My deepest apologies if any of it is wrong, I did my best to get it as accurate as possible but I only ever trust Google so far when it comes to translating things... 
> 
> <3


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